She drags her nails over arm. The skin itches. Burns. The not-yet-healed letters glisten, red and irritated. Mudblood. Tremors rushes through her limbs, aftereffects of the many cruciatus curses.
When Fleur Weasley comes to see her, bringing potions for pain and healing with her, Hermione turns away. If she truly is dirty, nothing, like Bellatrix Lestrange hissed at her in Malfoy Manor, then no potions in the world will help. Because potions cannot fix nothing.

#

She watches them as she sits alone in a shadowy corner of the partially destroyed Great Hall.
Ron; happy and grateful to have his family with him, grieving Fred, tired and worn out but alive.
Harry; surrounded by students, professors and parents, a look of tired relief mixed with sorrow on his face, alive.
Hermione's apparition is silent and unnoticed, and she's glad that the wards around the castle haven't been repaired yet.
She opens her tired eyes and sees the yellow and green house with white picket fence. Australia. The sun warms her cold body as she walks up the small drive way and knocks on the yellow door.
The woman who opens the door doesn't recognize her. Not yet. Hermione smiles and makes up and excuse of having taken a nasty fall and being lost, and can she possibly be allowed to use their bathroom and a map for a few minutes?
She does clean up in the small bathroom, at least as much as she can, before she silently sneaks through the house to fund the woman and the man. They are sitting in a comfy and cosy living room, talking in hushed voices. Hermione watches them from the doorway. Wendel and Monica Wilkins are happy. Daniel and Jean Granger were happy as well, but also wary of their daughter being in a world they could not understand. And the news of war made them worry more.
Hermione weighs her options. Restoring her parents' memories and, possibly most likely, never have them forgive her for erasing them without their consent, even though she did it for protection. Leave them and Wendel and Monica, happy and unaware and without worries. Without her.
Her wand trembles as Hermione whispers words of magic. Monica Wilkins turns around and smiles.
"Did you manage to get cleaned up, dear? I put a map over there on the table for you."
"Yes, thank you very much. I'll just take a quick look and be on my way. Thank you. Goodbye."
She leaves, and apparates once more, silent this time as well. The Forest of Dean is green and lush. And silent. The small river plays happily in the sunlight. Hermione does not fit in here, dirt and nothing has no place here amongst growing, living things. She stays anyway.
The riverbank is slightly damp and mud mixes with grass. Hermione lays down on her back, looks up into the bright blue sky. Her wand flick once, sharply. Blood sips slowly and then fast from her left wrist and pours onto the ground, mixes with its brown mud. Mudblood. This is her true place. Silent in the mud. Not bothering anyone. Free, at last.